


The pearly gates have such eloquent graffiti

by tocourtdisaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Near Death Experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-20
Updated: 2011-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-23 22:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/255597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t pray now because he can’t remember how and because it’s not very imaginative, is it, praying after you’ve been hit by a car?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The pearly gates have such eloquent graffiti

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently, I like subjecting John to copious amounts of pain. Who knew? Title comes from “The Trapeze Swinger” by Iron & Wine.

He’s running like always, following Sherlock and basking in second-hand glory and not daring to glance away from Sherlock’s back lest he lose sight of him and dashing into the street without checking for traffic and ---

Pain.

Tires screeching.

Screaming.

All the air leaves his lungs when his body slams into the ground and he can’t get it back, can’t breathe for the pain, his vision black around the edges. He sees blood on the pavement and it reminds him of Afghanistan, of watching his blood soaking into the sand and praying not to die.

He doesn’t pray now because he can’t remember how and because it’s not very imaginative, is it, praying after you’ve been hit by a car?

“John!”

He manages the smallest of inhales and immediately gasps it back out, does it again. Gargle, rinse, repeat.

“John!”

His vision goes completely black and it takes him a moment before he realizes it’s because Sherlock is crouched in front of him, black shoes and black trousers and ever-present black coat blocking out everything else.

There is a clatter as Sherlock’s phone lands on the pavement not far from John’s nose, its lit-up screen breaking up the monotony of black-on-black. No doubt the 999 call is still connected.

He feels a cool hand against his throat: Sherlock measuring his pulse, counting the beats out loud, muttering under his breath about shock and internal injuries and blankets. John knows what Sherlock is going to do, even before he pulls his hand away and strips out of his coat. He wants to tell him, _No, don’t ruin your coat on a lost cause,_ but he doesn’t have the breath to speak and he’s not quite that cruel.

Sherlock’s hand is back at his throat, Sherlock’s coat a barely perceptible weight against his body, Sherlock’s voice loud in his ear, and John realizes that he’s been drifting, wonders how long he was unaware, wonders how much longer he’ll manage to stay conscious, realizes it won’t be very long.

“Sorry,” he gasps out, barely audible through the pounding in his ears, through Sherlock’s demands, through the sound of approaching sirens.

  


\------

  
He’s standing in the middle of his gran’s kitchen, looking out the open window towards the setting sun. There’s a cool breeze stirring the lace curtains and brushing against his face, bringing the faint scent of the sea.

But, wait, that’s not quite right. Gran didn’t live anywhere near the sea.

He blinks and ---

He’s sitting at his desk in his old room at Mum’s house, the photo album in front of him opened to the page with the pictures from his med school graduation. Mum in the photo is grinning and crying and Dad looks so proud he might burst.

No, that can’t be right. Dad died when John was just a kid.

He blinks ---

He is laying in his bed at Baker Street, comfortably warm under a pile of blankets, an arm snug across his chest and Sherlock’s breath gusting against neck with every exhale and John would very much like to stay here for a very long time.

It’s wrong, though. He’s never shared a bed with Sherlock.

He ---

  


\------

  
He isn’t quite sure when he wakes up, if his returning awareness was gradual or sudden. All he knows is that right now, his eyes are open and he’s staring blearily at the ceiling. He has only the vaguest awareness of his body and his mind feels like it’s about to float away, which means he’s on the good painkillers.

He can’t quite remember _why_ he’s on painkillers, but then Sherlock’s head pops into field of vision and he remembers ---

Pain.

Sirens.

Death.

Wait a minute. Death?

“John?”

There’s a hand against his, oh so carefully avoiding the IV line, exerting the tiniest amount of pressure against his skin and that delicacy makes John’s chest hurt.

“John? Are you awake this time?”

He can’t answer through the lump in his throat and he can’t imagine trying to nod just yet, but he can flick his eyes to meet Sherlock’s, can twitch his fingers until Sherlock’s longer digits are curled around his.

He blinks slowly and Sherlock smiles, just the corners of his mouth twitching up, but the worry vanishes from his face and it makes him look ten years younger.

He blinks again, slower than before, and it takes a herculean effort to drag his eyes open again. He’s so tired he could sleep for weeks.

“Go back to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And he doesn’t like to blindly obey every order Sherlock gives him at the risk of setting a precedent, but he can always claim later that the drugs made him do it and that going back to sleep had nothing to do with Sherlock.

He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers weakly and shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep to the sound of Sherlock’s breathing.  



End file.
